


The Whole Neurotic Symphony Is Live In Ten

by sugarkind



Series: Punk AU [3]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Punk AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-21
Updated: 2018-03-21
Packaged: 2019-04-05 08:57:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14040699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sugarkind/pseuds/sugarkind
Summary: All tits become unquenchable before you go live. It's just a stupid dive bar but something about people really gets the breasts rolling.





	The Whole Neurotic Symphony Is Live In Ten

>Be Dirk Strider

That’s funny, because Dirk Strider isn’t even sure he wants to be himself right now. In fact, he’d give just about anything to circumvent his soul and leave this tenuous mortal plane. Of course, it doesn’t happen, and the floor doesn’t open under his feet. He’s still here, panic subjugated for the moment, if only for a few more minutes until he brilliantly blows his top.

It’s just one open-mic night in a shoddy run-down hole with a neon sign. He swears to every power higher than a single man with a guitar and pick that he saw at least one of these waitresses going inside the strip club down the block. He’d never been inside it, but his apartment is sitting pretty from a couple stories up across from it, and he’s spent at least a couple hours numbly watching people tumble in and out like shitty revolving doors of carnality. And fuck, he knows that block is the only thing between him and safety, but he has to do this, can’t let his brother down. He’s pretty sure this is important to Dave, though he never said it in so many words, if any at all. And if hunches have it, he’s probably as close to pissing his trousers as Dirk is.

He wouldn’t call it fear that colors the pallor of his person, it’s survival instincts that he isn’t necessary sure he even needs to have. Nerves nigh overactive to hell, and the hair-trigger panic to rival any deer in Seattle, Washington. And god knows there are several. He popped a xanax before he came, but it didn’t do as much as he thought it would, and he blames it on the wishful thinking that a pill could ever quash his neuroses. 

They announce “Nevermore” and Dirk almost vomits because every time someone says it outloud he laughs, and now really isn’t the time to jostle himself, like the delicately strapped TNT he feels like right now. Dave goes first, pants unsoiled, Dirk goes second with a stool and his guitar. It’s easy to let his brother pave the way, mince words with the crowd and whatever high collared employee that introduced them. All there is for him to do is jam his guitar into a amp, test a few chords, though he’s certain it’s tuned correctly because he just did it 10 minutes ago.

Dave glances his way from where Dirk has stiffly plopped his stool and secondly, himself, maybe checking to see if he’s still breathing, more likely just looking to see if he’s set. Dave can play as well, but it’s digs like these where one guitar and one voice is simple and uncomplicated, just raw talent without the unnecessary jives of high up entertainers. 

Dirk’s mouth quirks neutrally, Dave smiles, and he really can’t tell if his brother is mocking him right now or if it’s supposed to be supportive. 

They play covers, because no one comes to a no-name joint like this to hear D Strider^2 original composition. Originals are for people with faces and names and not two blonde suckers in a free open mic night, barely getting paid. Dirk understands in a resentful way, but he wishes he didn’t have to play stale punk songs everyone already knows. He knows Dave is grateful, but mirroring his resentfulness.

The music lulls the anxiety out of him, though arguably it could also be the xanax in his system. Dave is a better singer than he is, and if it didn’t always sound so gay, he’d acknowledge that Dave’s voice did a better job of panic quelling than any pill. And he hears it almost constantly, so maybe that’s the reason why he hasn’t thrown himself off the ledge of their apartment, into the street below, prostrating himself before the Enchanted Lady like a bad Pollock painting. 

It’s all speculation, and for now he focuses on more concrete things, like the back of Dave’s shirt and the pinprick of black in his vision from where he’d been staring into the stage lights too long.


End file.
